Translated from the Albanian
by Carrie Hooper/
Who Knows?
This last rain-filled Monday
Of old February,
With short-term words and hopes,
Like a morning will soon end.
Today, some people I don’t know,
Who seem insignificant,
Have a birthday.
The cats’ mating season
Is coming to an end.
Therefore, they scramble to make passionate love
As much and as often as possible.
But people, unaware of the passage of time,
Aren’t in a hurry to do anything.
They laugh like fools;
Plan summer vacations.
Who knows?
Seasons, summer may not come anymore.
Months may no longer have
February’s passion.
Who knows?
Tirana, February 21, 2022
Hungarian Rhapsody
On this Sunday morning,
The liquid speech of the girls
Resembles a meow.
The trees are silent.
“And you told me you would return on Sunday.”
A line from the suicidal song, “Bothersome Sunday”,
By the Hungarian composer, Lazlo Javor,
The only thing I remember
On Sundays in this country.
But now I am going away,
Leaving behind a woodpile.
Let them burn it in winter.
I can’t help them
Even if the winter is harsh.
As the last leaf
Abandons the lonely trees,
I notice the increasing strangehold on Hungary
And the villages around the churches.
More distant trees are also bare
Like the people in revisionist films
When rebellion made sense
For rebellion demands stunted trees
And exposed navels.
But on this train,
Everyone looks so innocent
That I can’t figure out
Who brought winter’s destruction to this country.
Vultures and other wild fowl
Follow the train
Like the gulls that pursued Odysseus’s ship.
I am going home.
The train heads south,
Cutting through virgin fields.
I don’t know
Who will explain why I left:
I, the one running away,
Or the train taking me.
I only know the gray Sunday morning
Is the perfect time to rebel
For Sunday afternoon is lethargic,
Good only for a game of chess.
At each station,
Cars that have been there since 1956
Await a push
Or perhaps a locomotive.
Filled with a century of fury,
They feel betrayed.
Knowing it’s Sunday,
The right time for revolution,
They stand there and wait.
If nothing else,
The horses must be shod,
The riders’ containers filled with goulash.
The lovers must lead
Since there is no more room
In the undulating landscapes
With broken mirrors.
Hungary is a flat country.
Therefore, the irritated cars must be removed.
Stations have no reason to remain silent
Even sixty-five years after the failed revolution.
Someone needs to shake up this passive people.
As always, someone needs to die for us, too,
Still warmed by the southern sun.
On a train from Pecs to Budapest, Sunday, November 28, 2021
The Night of May 17, 2020
That night,
Only the stage cast shadows
In the dead theater.
Never before had so many actors performed
In a tragedy or comedy.
The audience witnessed
The murder of a hero
As around 800 policemen
Kicked him in the throat.
One of the officers I know
Said there were fewer policemen.
I believed him
Since he attended the show I directed,
“The Hamlet Machine.”
With his financee beside him,
He looked like a gentleman.
He asked me
If we would be performing the show again
The following day,
But I told him
Tonight’s was the only performance.
Therefore, the officer, with badge number 2314, was unhappy
Because the theater had not prepared any “biz.”
There was no time
For a final solo
Not for lack of a script
For in their haste,
Some benevolent revolutionary clowns
Had lost their masks.
Still, people respected the mise-en-scenes.
Red columns of blood
Gushed from the eyes of the theater.
The host, caught by the arms,
Managed to say,
“Wipe the murder from your faces, my princes,
And smile for the new Denmark!”
Tirana, May 18, 2020
Last Night
Last night in the city,
They killed his guard dog.
They had killed his attack dog in 1945.
They told me his guard dog
Had long languished with loneliness
And would have died of starvation
If they hadn’t killed him.
I can’t help but suspect
That since he was blind, deaf, and mute,
He put himself in harm’s way.
Schkoder, December 18, 2021
She Should Be Home By Now
She should be home by now.
Who knows where she hid her thoughts of me.
I fear in her confusion
She left them
In a place they can’t be found,
In a place they can be found.
Perhaps, after many years,
She will find her thoughts of me sleeping
For even thoughts fall asleep when tired
Without saying goodnight.
Thoughts also die at night
Without asking for a little water.
They Blinded My Beloved
One morning in early February,
That terrible month of innocent days,
They blinded my beloved
On the street where I live
In a little house.
She caught their eye
On a gray day
As it started to rain.
“She is not your lover,” they said.
“You are her lover.”
They threw red liquid in her face
Right when she wanted to tell me
She loved me.
Then, they put her in a garbage truck
Covered with blood.
That sad morning
In the brevity of February
Has repeated itself like an idiot
For a million years.
Now I perceive my beloved
As a pain under my left armpit
Where I assume my heart lay
During that dreadful dream.
How Hard To Discuss A Day
How hard to discuss a day,
Your day that just ended
Because sometimes a day resembles a pond
That scars you when you charge through it.
How awful to hurry!
Some days can’t be discussed
Because they are born to be misunderstood;
Others stifle you unaware.
Some days are like an endless supply
Of melted dark chocolate.
Humid and cold days
Awaken your desire
To be lied to.
On some days,
You forget everyone;
Feel Adam’s loneliness.
The objects around you amaze you.
You think you made them yourself.
Later, night returns
With the hope you will come tomorrow.
Schkoder, February 7, 2022
In the Evening
You appeared in the evening
When the Lord decided to abandon
The Tower of Babel.
I wandered the streets
Like a simple, misunderstood worker.
Words and sentences
Fell from scaffolds
With the melancholy thud
Of objects thrown into the abyss.
The darkness swallowed
Essential words of love.
My mouth blocked more simple words.
You, beyond the darkness,
Like a forgotten full moon,
Expected new and different words.
You wanted a language just for us.
I continue to wander
Like a fired employee,
And you, like the moon,
Stay in the sky, unscathed.
Tirana, February 28, 2022
Bottle in the Sea
You left.
I was the last one on the ship,
Moved by the wind
As if made of paper
Because it was made of paper.
What more could I offer except the words,
“My lady, you look truly charming, my lady,”
Written on lined notebook paper
With which I made the ship.
I reached for the radio
And sent messages in Morse code:
“This is Schkoder
With a special message.
My lady, you look truly charming, my lady.
Happiness is fading.
Patience is wearing thin.
The faithful one betrayed his thoughts
And drove forgetnessness mad.
The victor lost the first part.
Hope died last.
Don’t think I forgot you. Stop.”
After these honest, but unfriendly messages,
Large ships came
To rescue our sinking vessel,
But when they saw your tall, beautiful form
Emerge unharmed,
They went back where they came from.
Maybe they thought I was joking.
I continued to transmit words:
“My lady, in the meantime,
You look truly charming, my lady.”
Shoes damaged the steel,
And the SOS’s stopped.
Finally, the ship and I sank.
Goodnight. Sleep well, my lady.
Drink from the bottle
Filled with messages.
You will find it among the waves,
Clever, young, and charming, my lady.
Tirana, March 14, 2022
O God, How Naiv I Am When I Write Poetry
I kept my most recent poem
In a briefcase
Which got stolen today
On the city bus.
The briefcase looked full
Because the poem took up several pages.
It had good, gentle,
Graceful, often random words.
I mentioned you a few times.
I don’t know why.
Was it out of necessity
Even though I knew without a doubt
They would steal my briefcase?
O God, how naiv I am
When I write poetry.
Now I am worried.
What if the jerk who stole my briefcase
Reads the poem aloud to his friends tonight
While they are drinking
At the neighborhood bar?
They will insult me
Especially after reading the last lines
Which say how much I love you.
Tirana, March 14, 2022
Photo by: https://creativemornings.com
